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Coming Home: Cookies & Churches

Summary: Sometimes promises turn into bigger things, but most times they start with cookies.

Words: 9K+

It all started because Alison Hatton, Eve’s mom, could not keep her mouth shut when someone mentioned cookies and Eve in the same sentence.

What had begun as a ten-minute conversation at the salon about the local church holding a fundraiser event for the roof somehow became a bright, breezy promise of: “Oh, for sure! Eve wouldn’t mind helping out at the church. Put her down for a stall. Her cookies are out of this world. Oh, and her brownies!”

The Eve in question did not find out until the next day, when she came by the salon to drop off a box of towels Alison had ordered. They had been delivered to Eve’s home because she was the only one who would be home. James was at school teaching history, Mai-Lein was in class, Josh was working on a house in Queen Anne, and Eve, who had only returned from Los Angeles a few days earlier, had apparently become the perfect person for delivery duty.

She should have known something was wrong the moment she stepped inside.

It was not that everyone stopped talking. No one turned away. No one refused to meet her eye. But there was a strange shift in the air, the kind that happened when the subject of the gossip walked directly into the room and everyone tried to look innocent at once.

Eve got the feeling the moment she shifted the box of towels, glancing around to the stylists and the clients. “Where’s my mom?”

One of the stylists glanced towards the back room a little too quickly.

From somewhere beyond the doorway came a muffled clatter, followed by hurried movement. A cabinet shut, something plastic rustled, and then Alison Hatton appeared in the doorway wearing an apron, holding a comb, and smiling with the kind of forced brightness that immediately confirmed guilt. “Oh! Eve!”

Eve stared at her and Alison’s smile widened. Eve shifted the box of towels higher against her chest. “What have you done?”

Alison blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Eve said.

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Mom.”

Alison gave a light, airy laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who knew she was already doomed but had decided to keep going anyway. “You come into my place of business carrying towels and immediately accuse me of something? That’s hurtful.”

“It’s accurate. What did you do?” Eve sighed, already knowing deep down in her chest that her Mom had done something.

Alison placed one hand against her chest. “I am a respected local business owner.”

She kept going as Eve stood there, staring at her. “I raised two daughters.”

“Mom.”

“I pay taxes.”

“Alison.”

That did it.

A ripple of laughter moved through the salon. Eve only used her mother’s first name when she was either deeply amused or on the edge of becoming genuinely dangerous, and every woman in that salon knew it. Alison’s expression faltered for a moment as Eve pointed at her with the corner of the towel box. “You volunteered me for something.”

There was a pause that was more incriminating than the clients in the salon realised. Eve could practically see her mother’s mind racing as she tried to decide whether to confess or invent a lie elaborate enough to survive cross-examination. Unfortunately for Alison, she could also see the look on her daughter’s face.

There was no lie good enough for that look. “The church,” Alison began, and Eve closed her eyes. “The church has a leak,” Alison continued quickly, as if speed might save her. “They’re trying to raise money to fix the roof, and I happened to mention that you liked to bake, and then things just sort of snowballed from there, and I signed you up for a stall.”

For a moment, Eve wondered if she was still suffering from jet lag, because her brain absolutely refused to process what had just come out of her mother’s mouth. Of course she liked to bake. She loved baking. But on her own terms. When she was in the mood. When she wanted something sweet in the house. When she fancied making a cake and eating it before Josh wandered in and stole half.

Not when her mother had auctioned her off to the church roof fund like a prize ham.

“A stall?” Eve said.

“Just a small one,” Alison said quickly. “And the proceeds go towards the church, obviously. Whatever you can manage. You don’t need to go overboard, but I’ve told-”

Eve opened her eyes and Alison stopped talking. Of course she had told people. Alison had probably told several people, including everyone in the salon, who would then tell everyone they knew, who would then pass it on with the speed and efficiency of a national emergency broadcast.

By the time Eve left the salon, she had a headache and a strong urge to get straight back on a plane to Los Angeles, where all she would have to do was sit in a makeup chair and be made presentable by professionals. That sounded far easier than baking for what had apparently started as a small church fundraiser and now carried the emotional weight of a major community event.

To cheer herself up, she drove to Weather Gage Coffee and ordered a latte and a strawberry muffin. She sat outside for a while, letting the afternoon settle around her as her mind started in fifth gear and was already starting to spiral.

Nobody in Easton came over to ask for an autograph. Nobody tried to take a sneaky photograph. Nobody gasped her name from across the street. In Easton, she was simply Eve, Alison and James’s daughter and that was it.

Not an Oscar-winning actress. Not an award-winning anything. Just Eve.

And now, apparently, a baker.

That thought followed her all the way out of town, down towards Baileys Neck and Enniskillen Road, where the farmhouse she and Josh had lovingly restored waited at the end of its narrow private lane.

The moment she got inside, Eve kicked off her shoes, shoved them into the cubby, hung up her bag, and went straight to the kitchen. She grabbed her notebook from the counter, carried it into the family room, and dropped onto the couch with the serious expression of a woman planning a military campaign.

If she was going to be trapped in this, she was not going to embarrass herself with three sad trays of chocolate chip cookies and a handwritten sign. She opened the notebook, grabbed a pen, and, after a quick search for inspiration on Pinterest, started writing.

Chocolate chip cookies. Oatmeal raisin cookies. Brown butter cookies. Oreo brownies. Tiramisu brownies. Carrot cake. Lemon drizzle.

She paused and looked at the list in its entirety, then beneath the list, she added:

Maybe blondies? Maybe more cake?

Eve stared at the page and sighed. This was how it always started: with someone asking her for one thing, and her brain immediately turning it into a project. Josh was known for it since all he had to do was mention “Fruit trees would look good” and then the next thing, four fruit trees arrived and a special area had been created for them.

She was still sitting there, chewing the end of her pen and glaring at the notebook, when Josh came home. She heard his truck first, then the low slam of the door, then his boots on the porch.

A second later, he stepped inside, dusty from work and carrying the familiar smell of sawdust, cold air, and old wood. He kicked off his boots by the door, accidentally scattered a little sawdust onto the rug, and stumbled slightly as he caught himself. “Shit,” he muttered.

Eve looked up from the couch. Josh glanced at her, then at the notebook in her lap, then at the list written in increasingly aggressive handwriting. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I know it’s not close to any holiday, so what’s happened?”

Eve leaned back against the cushions and held up the notebook. “My mother,” she said darkly, “has sold me to the church for cookies.”

Josh stared at her for half a second and then his mouth twitched. Eve pointed the pen at him, trying not to laugh herself. “Do not laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” he protested even though he definitely was.

“You’re about to,” she murmured with a pout.

Josh crossed the room, still fighting the grin, and leaned over the back of the couch to read the list. “Brown butter cookies, chocolate chip cookies," he said. “That one’s staying,” he added, pointing to chocolate chip cookies on the list.

Eve tipped her head back to look at him. “You are missing the point.”

“I’m not missing the point. I understand the point. Your mom volunteered you; the church needs a roof, Easton knows, and now you’re making cookies,” he summarised quickly.

“And brownies.”

“And brownies,” Josh agreed solemnly.

Eve groaned and covered her face with the notebook. Josh laughed then, warm and helpless, before leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “the church roof is lucky to have you.”

Eve lowered the notebook just enough to glare at him. “Get out.” Josh grinned and headed towards the kitchen. “Add the blondies.”

The coffee machine went on. There was rummaging in the cupboard, then the fridge, before Josh came back with a Tupperware tub of leftovers and a coffee as if he hadn’t eaten lunch from Chick-fill-A only an hour ago.

“So,” he said, setting everything on the coffee table, “I take it that because she signed you up for this, I’m automatically signed up as well.”

Before Eve could answer, he disappeared upstairs.

She stayed where she was, staring down at the list and making little notes on the margin while his footsteps crossed the landing above her. Their bedroom door opened, a drawer slid out, another door shut, and he came back downstairs in clean clothes.

“Mom will be too busy gushing about everything to be of any actual use,” Eve said, dropping the notebook onto her lap.

Josh sat down beside her, and without thinking, Eve stretched her legs out and rested her feet across his lap. He accepted them automatically, one hand settling over her ankle as if that were simply where it belonged.

“Plus,” she added, “if it’s simple, it’ll only need the two of us.”

Josh glanced at the notebook, and then he glanced at her because he knew her well enough now. “You’ve got six things on there,” he said. “Seven if we’re counting the maybe blondies. And I know you well enough to know that once you get started, you won’t stop because you’re a menace when it comes to projects.”

Eve sighed because he was right. For a brief moment, the only sounds in the room were Josh eating his leftovers and Eve pretending very hard that this was still going to be simple. Then she gave up the pretence entirely and added two flavours of blondies, a cookie pie, and millionaire’s shortbread, bringing the total to ten individual items, and in brackets, she made a note of how many batches.

Josh watched her write, fork halfway to his mouth. “Right,” he said, grinning around the mouthful. “What do you need from me?”

“Tables,” Eve said immediately. “Two, maybe three. The folding ones from the barn. Tablecloths that don't look like they came from a school cafeteria. Bags. Labels. A cash box. A card machine, probably. And stands for everything.”

None of that sounded simple to Josh.

It sounded like an expense with no return, and worse, something that would almost definitely tie Eve to future stall promises. But this was Eve. Once she had a picture in her head, the best thing anyone could do was either help or get out of the way.

“Simple,” Josh said, nodding solemnly. “Right. So I need to build the stands and check the tables. You need to get everything else.”

Eve sighed, but she was already writing.

Between them that day, they made a proper list of supplies for the stall itself. Eve would handle the ingredients, decide the baking schedule, and push her mother for actual details about times, setup, expected crowds, and whether “small fundraiser” meant twenty people or the entire town pretending they had casually dropped by.

The fundraiser was still three weeks away, which gave Josh plenty of time to find scraps of wood, sand them down, varnish them, and turn them into display stands that, to anyone other than him, looked as if they had cost over a hundred dollars. In reality, they cost nothing but leftover timber, a bit of varnish, and Josh muttering to himself in the barn for two evenings.

Over the next week, they ordered new tables, tablecloths, a cash box, a card machine, bags, a label maker, labels, string, and a few other things Eve insisted were “probably necessary". Everything turned up in Amazon boxes and over several days, the Amazon driver knew their road like the back of his hand. Josh also made a small sign from scrap wood, carefully sanding the edges before burning the words ‘Eve’s Bakes’ into the front.

When he showed it to her, Eve stared at it for a long moment and finally said, “You are very annoying.” Josh leaned against the kitchen counter, looking far too pleased with himself. “You love it.”

“It’s manipulative.” She pretended to be annoyed for all of half an hour, then lovingly hung the sign in the kitchen until it would be needed for the stall.

In the week leading up to the fundraiser, Eve spent two full days in Easton gathering ingredients and supplies. Flour, sugar, butter, chocolate, oats, eggs, tins, parchment paper, and enough brown sugar to make the cashier ask if she were opening a bakery.

Eve smiled politely and said, “Not intentionally.” Which, by then, was only half true.

The kitchen was soon taken over by big sacks of flour and sugar, and one entire shelf in the fridge became dedicated to butter. Josh took one look at it, opened his mouth, then wisely shut it again.

He stayed even quieter when Eve’s to-do list went up on Wednesday night on the fridge, detailing every single thing she had to bake. He said nothing when he saw the timings, nothing when he noticed the quantities, and absolutely nothing when he heard her get up before him at six o’clock on Thursday morning.

Thursday and Friday were dedicated entirely to baking.

The dining table, which could seat twenty people and had been lovingly made by Josh, disappeared beneath cooling racks, trays, parchment paper, tins, and stacks of neatly labelled containers. Eve moved between the kitchen and dining room all day, sliding cookies onto racks, cutting brownies into even squares, checking cakes, scraping bowls, and making notes in the margins whenever she adjusted something.

By late afternoon each day, when Josh came home from work, the house smelt like butter, chocolate, vanilla, and sugar. He would kick off his boots, shower, change into clean clothes, and then take over the part of the operation Eve hated most: labels.

He set the laptop up at the dining table, opened the label-maker software, and typed out ingredients, allergens, and best-before dates with the grave concentration of a man drafting legal documents rather than packaging cookies for a church fundraiser. Then he spent over an hour printing labels, lining them up, and making sure every bag had the right one.

After that, he helped Eve package everything.

Cookies went into clear bags, sealed and labelled. Brownies were wrapped and stacked in containers. Blondies were separated by flavour. Millionaire’s shortbread was handled with extreme care because Eve had threatened his life if he ruined the layers.

By Friday evening, the two of them had become a well-oiled machine of baking, decorating, labelling, and packaging. Eve handled the flavours and finishing touches. Josh handled the labels, bags, containers, and anything that required patience with technology.

Somewhere between the flour on the counters, the label tape stuck to Josh’s sleeve, and Eve muttering, “Where is my spatula?” for the fourth time, the whole thing had become less of a disaster and more of a system.

At 9pm that evening, everything was finally packed into containers and stacked in the fridge. The counters had been wiped down. The cooling racks were empty. The dining table had started to look like a dining table again. All that remained was loading the final boxes into the truck the next morning and praying there was no rain in the forecast.

Eve stood in front of the open fridge, staring at the rows of pretty bags and labelled boxes as if they had appeared there by magic. “How did we manage all that?” she asked.

Josh leaned against the counter beside her, eating a misshapen cookie that had not made it into the official batch. “Skill,” he said, grinning.

Eve looked at him and watched as he took another bite and added, “And fear. Mostly fear.”

She laughed despite herself and closed the fridge.

Everything was ready. The truck had already been partly loaded with tables and display units in between packaging the millionaire’s shortbread and decorating the last of the cookies. There was nothing left to do now except sleep, wake up early, and hope the weather behaved.

It had been a long few days of baking and prep work, and Eve could feel it in her bones as she wiped down the final stretch of counter while Josh vacuumed the floor. Her muscles ached from hours of standing, lifting, stirring, bending, and moving back and forth between the kitchen and dining room. Her feet hurt in a way that made Jimmy Choos feel like slippers.

All she wanted was a hot shower and bed.

Josh ordered pizza from Roma Alla Pala while Eve went upstairs and drowned herself under water so hot it felt almost medicinal. By the time she came back down in fresh pyjamas, her hair damp and her face scrubbed clean, Josh had already sliced the pizza and set out plates, napkins, a beer for himself, and a small cider for her.

The family room was warm and low-lit. The house still smelt faintly of sugar and chocolate, though beneath it was the comfort of pizza, clean laundry, and the old wood of the farmhouse settling down for the night.

Eve dropped onto the couch with a groan and Josh handed her a plate, which she accepted with a happy smile. “To the church roof.” That earned him a dark look as Eve lifted the slice of pizza, “Do not toast the church roof.”

He lifted his beer anyway. “To being sold for cookies.”

“Joshua.”

“To your mother’s complete inability to mind her own business.”

“That one I’ll drink to.”

They clinked the bottle and glass of cider together, and Eve took a bite of pizza, closing her eyes for one grateful second. For the first time all week, there was nothing to measure, label, cut, package, count, stack, or organise.

There was only the couch, the fire, the quiet house, Josh beside her, and the strange, unsettling knowledge that what had started as her mother meddling had somehow become something she was almost proud of. Almost.

Josh must have seen the thought cross her face, because he leant back against the cushions and smiled. “You know,” he said, “if tomorrow goes well, people are going to ask when you’re doing another one.”

Eve froze with the pizza halfway to her mouth, and then she slowly turned her head and looked at him. “Don’t.” He laughed and wisely said nothing, stuffing a large slice of pizza into his mouth and saying nothing more about tomorrow.

And somewhere in the quiet of the farmhouse, with the fridge full of cookies and brownies and a hand-burned sign waiting by the door, the very first version of Merrick’s Reach Kitchen was already beginning, whether Eve knew it or not.

Eve woke before the alarm. That, more than anything, annoyed her.

The alarm was set for six-thirty. She had been sensible about it. She had planned the morning carefully, given herself enough time to shower, dress, drink coffee, panic quietly, check everything twice, and get to the church with plenty of room for setup.

Instead, her eyes opened at five-forty-seven, and there she was, staring at the ceiling in the blue-grey half-light of early morning, already thinking about labels. For a few seconds, she tried to stay still and pretend she could go back to sleep.

She could not.

Beside her, Josh was asleep on his stomach, one arm tucked under the pillow, hair rumpled, completely unaware that somewhere downstairs an entire refrigerator was packed with cookies, brownies, blondies, cakes, and Eve’s rapidly deteriorating sense of calm.

She turned her head and glared at him. He did not wake up. Of course he did not wake up. Josh could sleep through storms, alarms, football commentary, her dropping a baking sheet at midnight, and, once, a very loud raccoon incident near the bins.

Eve carefully slid out from under the covers.

The floorboards were cool beneath her feet. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that belonged only to early mornings before the day had decided what it was going to be. Outside the bedroom windows, the trees were still dark shapes against a pale sky, and somewhere down towards the river, birds had begun making tentative, irritatingly cheerful noises.

She pulled on Josh’s hoodie from the chair instead of her robe and padded down the hallway.

The stair lamp glowed softly from the lighthouse baluster at the bottom of the stairs. Eve paused halfway down, listening. No movement. No weather against the windows. No rain.

That, at least, was something.

In the kitchen, she opened the fridge. Rows of containers looked back at her.

Clear bags of cookies sat stacked in neat plastic tubs. Brownies and blondies had been separated by flavour, each layer protected with parchment. Lemon drizzle slices sat in one container, carrot cake in another, the tops already wrapped carefully so nothing smudged. Millionaire’s shortbread had its own section because Eve trusted no one with it, including herself when tired.

It was, in fairness, beautiful. Annoyingly beautiful.

She leaned against the open fridge door and stared at it all. “What have I done?” she whispered.

The first problem of the morning arrived six minutes later, when Eve realised she had not priced anything. She stood very still in the kitchen, one hand on the counter, the other holding a marker, and looked at the blank chalkboard signs sitting beside the bags.

Somehow, through two days of baking, labelling, packaging, sorting, loading, cleaning, and trying not to openly resent her mother, she had forgotten the tiny, insignificant matter of deciding how much to charge.

“Fantastic,” she muttered.

She pulled the notebook towards her and flipped it open.

Cookies. Brownies. Blondies. Cake slices. Lemon drizzle. Carrot cake. Millionaire’s shortbread. Cookie pie.

For a moment, she considered writing “Pay what you want” and letting God and the church roof sort it out between them. Then she imagined Alison finding out and telling everyone that Eve was too generous, which would become a story, which would become a thing, and Eve absolutely did not want a thing.

She put the marker down and made coffee.

By the time Josh came downstairs at six-fifteen, scratching the back of his head and looking unfairly well-rested, Eve had three mugs lined up on the counter that were in stages of being drunk, one notebook open, one pricing crisis underway, and the expression of a woman who had already fought several invisible battles.

Josh stopped in the doorway and took the whole thing in. “Morning,” he said carefully. He looked at the coffee mugs. “How long have you been awake?”

“Spiritually? Since Thursday. Today? Before six,” Eve sighed as she made a note.

He nodded as if this confirmed something important. “Right. And what are we angry at?”

“Pricing.”

“Ah.” He picked up the notebook and scanned the list. Then he took the marker and began writing on scrap paper, his handwriting blocky and practical. “Cookies, three dollars each or two for five. Brownies and blondies, four each. Cake slices, four. Millionaire’s, five.”

Eve blinked. “Five?”

“It has layers,” Josh pointed out.

“It does have layers,” Eve agreed as she leaned over to see the prices he was writing down.

“Cookie pie slices, six, because of layers.”

Eve frowned. “Is that too much?”

Josh looked up. “For the church roof? For the amount of work and ingredients that have gone into it?”

She paused because he had a point, like he always did. “Fine.”

He smiled and wrote it down.

By six-thirty, the house had properly woken up around them. Eve showered quickly, then stood in front of the wardrobe for too long trying to decide what version of herself should go to a church fundraiser where everyone already knew too much.

Hollywood Eve was inappropriate. Farmhouse Eve looked like she had been attacked by flour.

Market Stall Eve, apparently, wore good jeans, clean trainers, a soft cream jumper, and her hair pinned half back so she would not keep touching it. She put on minimal makeup, then took half of it back off because it felt ridiculous for selling brownies in a church hall.

When she came downstairs, Josh was already dressed in jeans, boots, and a dark green overshirt, looking like he had been born to carry folding tables and quietly make everyone else look less capable.

He had also packed the cash box, card machine, extension cord, napkins, paper bags, spare labels, tape, scissors, string, pens, wipes, hand sanitiser, and a roll of kitchen towel.

Eve stared at the collection by the door. “When did you do all this?”

“While you were deciding if eyeliner was too much for Jesus.”

The next half hour passed in a blur of movement. They loaded the final containers into the truck with the careful concentration of people transporting priceless artefacts rather than baked goods. Eve carried the carrot cakes (yes, plural!) like they were newborns. Josh carried three tubs at once, because of course he did, and then got told off for taking corners too quickly on the porch steps.

The folding tables, the cloths, and the wooden display stands Josh had made had all been put in the truck the night before and covered in case there had been any splattering of raindrops due. Then the boxes of packaged bakes, then the signs, then everything Eve had decided at the last minute might be useful.

And once all the bakes were secure, the small framed sign that said 'Eve's Bakes' was packed last because Josh had quietly taken it down from the kitchen wall and packed it without telling her since he knew she didn’t want any branding of her name.

The drive into Easton was quiet at first.

Morning sat low over the fields, mist caught in the ditches and pale sunlight beginning to spread over the tops of the trees. The roads were mostly empty, except for a few early dog walkers, a pickup truck heading the opposite way, and someone cycling with the grim determination of a person who had made exercise part of their personality.

Eve held her coffee in both hands and watched the town come closer.

Three weeks earlier, this had been nothing. A stupid thing her mother had volunteered her for: a favour, a cookie, an idea. Now there was a truck full of baked goods behind them, a card machine in the glove compartment, and a handmade sign with her name on it.

Josh glanced over. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she finally said. He waited and grinned when she added, “No.”

He smiled a little. “What bit?”

“All of it,” she had to admit. The fact her baking was on public show, the public, the what-ifs of nothing sold, the event not being busy, etc.

He reached over and rested his hand briefly on her knee before returning it to the wheel. “It’s just a fundraiser,” he said.

“That is exactly what people say before something becomes a nightmare.”

“It’s a church roof, Eve. The worst thing that happens is you sell some brownies and everyone thanks you too much.”

“That is the nightmare,” she sighed and finished her coffee.

By the time they pulled into the church car park, the place was already busier than Eve expected.

Of course it was.

There were cars along the side of the road, volunteers carrying boxes, a man in a fleece vest attempting to direct traffic with the confidence of someone who had never directed traffic before, and two older women arranging a tombola table under a banner that read FIX OUR ROOF FUNDRAISER in cheerful letters.

Eve stared through the windscreen. “This is not small.”

Josh leaned forward, looking around. “No.”

“She said small.”

Before he could answer, Alison appeared. She emerged from somewhere near the church hall doors like a woman summoned by gossip and responsibility, wearing a floral blouse, jeans, a cardigan, and the expression of someone who had done nothing wrong in her entire life.

She waved both arms. “Oh, good! You’re here!”

Eve closed her eyes and Josh, the traitor, waved back. Alison hurried over as they got out of the truck. “You made it!”

“No thanks to you,” Eve said.

Alison ignored that entirely and kissed her cheek. “You look lovely.” Alison turned to Josh. “Morning, sweetheart.”

“Morning, Alison", Josh grinned as he moved the baked goods out of the way so he could get to the tables.

“Thank you for helping her,” Alison said as she got distracted by what was actually in the truck. “Oh my God, did you bring all that?”

Eve’s expression flattened before she could open her mouth to say, ‘Are you serious?’ Josh made a sound like a cough and turned towards the truck.

Their stall was inside the church hall, along the left wall between a table of handmade jams and a woman selling knitted baby hats. This placement, Alison announced proudly, was “excellent visibility", which Eve translated to mean everyone would see her and there would be no escape.

The hall smelt like coffee, floor polish, flowers, and the faint mustiness of old community buildings that had hosted everything from baptisms to bingo nights. Volunteers moved around setting up tables. Someone was plugging in a tea urn. A small group of teenagers were arranging second-hand books by genre with far more seriousness than Eve had expected. In one corner, three children were being given instructions for a ring toss game and ignoring all of them.

Eve stood in front of the empty table space and took a breath as Josh touched her shoulder. “Tell me where you want things.”

That helped. It helped because it was practical. It gave her something to do other than feel watched. They unfolded the first table, then the second, and Josh adjusted the legs until nothing wobbled. Eve spread the tablecloths, smoothing the fabric with both hands. They were cream, simple and clean, with a narrow blue runner Eve had insisted it looked “a bit less church basement".

Josh set the wooden stands in place while Eve unpacked the first containers.

Within minutes, the table began to transform.

Cookies went into lined baskets, each flavour grouped carefully. Brownies were stacked on raised wooden trays. Blondies sat in neat rows, pale and golden, one batch with white chocolate and raspberry, the other with brown sugar and pecans. Lemon drizzle slices caught the light with their thin, glossy icing. Carrot cake squares sat under a clear cover, the cream cheese frosting piped softly on top. Millionaire’s shortbread received its own stand because, as Eve had already informed Josh twice, it had earned one.

The cookie pie slices were arranged last, thick and ridiculous, each one wrapped in parchment with a small label tied in string.

Josh placed the Eve’s Bakes sign at the front, and Eve glanced at it, the corner of her mouth twitching slightly as she continued to set out the cash box and turn on the card machine.

By the time the fundraiser officially opened at ten, Eve’s stomach had turned into a fist. People began drifting into the hall in small clusters. Older couples first, then families, then people who had clearly come for the roof but were delighted to discover cake. The tombola table got busy quickly. Coffee was poured. Children began moving around with the slightly chaotic energy of children given permission to be indoors near baked goods.

For five whole minutes, no one approached Eve’s table. Eve stood behind it, hands clasped together, trying to look friendly but not desperate.

Josh stood beside her, relaxed, one hand resting on the back of a chair. “This is worse than press junkets,” she whispered. He snorted and looked amused. “You’d rather be asked the same question about character motivation by seventy-three journalists?”

“At least they don’t inspect my brownies.”

A woman in a navy coat slowed near the table, looked at the cookies, then at the brownies, and then at Eve.For one awful second, Eve thought she was about to ask if she was who she thought she was.

Instead, the woman said, “Are those oatmeal and raisin?”

Eve almost sagged with relief. “Yes. With cinnamon and brown sugar.”

The woman smiled. “My husband loves oatmeal and raisins. I keep telling him he’s the only person alive who does.”

“They’re better than people give them credit for,” Eve said.

The woman bought four and that was the first sale: oatmeal raisin cookies. Somehow, that felt perfect.

Josh put the money in the cash box as if they had just completed a major business transaction. Eve placed the cookies in a paper bag, folded the top, and handed it over.

“Thank you,” she said.

That first sale seemed to set the tone for the rest of the day. It started slowly, then all at once.

A man bought two brownies, then came back five minutes later for four more because his wife had tried one and sent him straight back. A little girl in a pink coat stood on tiptoe for so long trying to choose between chocolate chip and brown butter cookies that Eve eventually crouched down and explained the difference like she was discussing wine pairings.

The girl chose chocolate chip. Then, at the last second, she pointed at the brown butter cookies too.

“Good choice,” Josh said solemnly as her father paid.

A group of older women came over together, all of them from Alison’s salon, which Eve knew immediately because they approached with identical expressions of delight and too much knowledge. The women bought so much between them that Josh had to restock the table from the containers underneath.

Then came people Eve knew from school. People who had known her parents for years. People who remembered her as a child. People who had watched Maple & Stone and politely did not mention it..

By half past ten, the hall was properly busy.

The noise rose until it became a warm blur of conversation, laughter, chair legs scraping, children asking for money, the ring toss bell clanging, and someone near the kitchen announcing that more coffee was ready. Sunlight came through the high windows, catching on the plastic covers over cakes and the glossy tops of brownies.

Eve found a rhythm.

Smile. Answer questions. Explain flavours. Hand bags to Josh. Take card payments. Give change. Restock. Rearrange. Wipe crumbs. Smile again.

She stopped feeling like everyone was looking at her and started noticing what they were actually looking at: the food. Then Josh looked up, and his entire face changed. “Oh, no,” he said. Eve glanced at him as she wiped down the tongs. “What?”

He nodded towards the entrance. “My family.”

Eve turned and sure enough, the Wallace family had arrived like a weather system.

Dale came in first, broad-shouldered and paint-splattered even on a Saturday, looking around the hall with the calm confidence of a man who knew at least three things in the building that needed fixing. Emma followed beside him, neatly dressed, hair perfect, her jewellery that she made catching the light at her ears and throat. Behind them came the Wallace brothers: Benjamin, Daniel, Owen, and Aiden, all of them talking over each other before they had even made it properly through the door.

It was not an entrance. It was an invasion.

Josh sighed and Eve felt a sense of relaxation flow over her mixed with nerves. She had known the Wallace family since she was fourteen, and they had seen her through every movie, every role, and every age. And now, here she was, a baker. That was one side they hadn’t seen much of.

Dale spotted the table first. “Ah, found them!” Emma smiled as she walked over and came around the table to kiss Eve’s cheek. “It looks beautiful.”

The brothers descended on the stall like men who had been told there was food and no adult supervision. Benjamin picked up a bag of cookies, turned it over, and inspected the label. “Look at that. Ingredients and everything.”

Daniel leaned over the brownies. “Which ones are the best?”

“All of them,” Eve said.

“That’s not helpful,” he pouted as he reached for his wallet.

Owen pointed at the millionaire’s shortbread. “What’s that?” Josh immediately stepped towards it. “Expensive.”

“For a church roof?” Owen said.

“For your safety,” Josh replied.

Aiden had already taken out his wallet. “I’ll have two brownies, two cookies, and whatever that lemon thing is.”

“Lemon drizzle,” Eve said. “Sounds healthy,” he said and realised it wasn’t when he had taken a huge bite out of it.

Dale bought oatmeal raisin cookies, carrot cake, and a lemon drizzle slice and then paid with a twenty and refused change.

Eve frowned. “Dale, no.”

“It’s for the roof,” he argued.

“That is too much for three things,” she protested while still packing up his requested items.

“Then give me another cookie.” Josh reached for the oatmeal raisin and Dale pointed at him. “Not that one. Chocolate chip. I’m charitable, not joyless.”

Emma took her time choosing, because of course she did. She asked about flavours, ingredients, packaging, how long everything had taken, whether Eve had slept, whether Josh had helped properly, and why the table didn’t have flowers at both ends instead of just one.

“I had flowers at both ends,” Eve said. “Then the brownies needed more room.”

Emma looked at the brownies and nodded solemnly. “Understandable.”

She bought blondies, lemon drizzle, and two bags of cookies, then also overpaid.

“Emma,” Eve said, and Emma gave her the kind of look only mothers and mothers-in-law could manage. “It’s a fundraiser, sweetheart. Plus, Josh looks like he’s having a great time so I’m paying to see that.”

Josh grinned and passed his mom the goodies she picked. “I’m having a great time.”

His brothers were worse. Daniel bought a brownie, ate half of it while still standing at the table, went quiet, then looked at Eve with genuine offence. “You made these?”

Eve narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“Because Josh lives with these and didn’t tell us, and he doesn’t bring us any either,” Daniel pointed at said brother with offence.

Josh lifted both hands. “I don’t control the brownies.”

Benjamin bought a bag of brown butter cookies and immediately told two people passing by that they needed to get some before they were gone. Owen started reading the chalkboard prices out loud like an auctioneer. Aiden asked if Eve had a business card, and when she said no, he looked at Josh and said, “Bad planning.”

Josh pointed at the handmade sign. “We are not at business-card level.”

Eve froze. “We are not at a business anything level.” All four Wallace brothers looked at the table, then at the line forming behind them, then back at Eve.

Owen grinned. “Sure.”

“Move,” Josh said, shoving him lightly by the shoulder. “You’re blocking actual customers.”

The Wallace family did not leave immediately. Of course they did not. They circulated through the hall, bought raffle tickets, coffee, and second-hand books, went outside to look at other stalls, and then came back to Eve’s table in waves. Every time one of them returned, they brought someone with them.

Dale brought Reverend Miller over and told him the display stands were made from scrap wood, which made Josh look both pleased and embarrassed. Emma brought two women she knew from town and quietly informed them that the lemon drizzle was “worth getting before it disappears.” Benjamin returned with a friend from the firehouse. Daniel came back for more brownies and claimed they were “for later,” despite having chocolate at the corner of his mouth. Owen bought cookies for someone he said “might exist eventually.” Aiden took a photo of the table and sent it to someone before Eve could stop him.

“This is your fault,” Eve told Josh as he restocked the blondies.

“My family supporting you?” He asked, carefully putting out the last of the blondies.

“Your family is behaving like a marketing department with boots,” she said while opening a bottle of water.

By eleven, the table was moving faster than Eve could comfortably manage. The queue was not enormous, but it was steady, and steady was somehow worse. People kept arriving just as she thought she could breathe. Someone wanted to know about allergens. Someone wanted six brownies bagged separately. Someone asked if the lemon drizzle was “properly lemony” because he did not believe in shy lemon cake. Eve told him she respected that position and gave him the sharpest-looking slice.

Then, just as the card machine decided to think very slowly about a payment, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Well,” Madison said, “this is rude.”

Eve looked up so quickly she nearly dropped the bag in her hand.

Madison, Eve’s best friend since the very early days of high school, stood on the other side of the table wearing jeans, heels, a denim jacket, and an expression of theatrical betrayal. Her hair was loose, sunglasses pushed up on her head, and she had a takeaway coffee in one hand and her phone already in the other.

Eve stared at her. “What are you doing here?”

Madison looked around the hall, then at the table, then at the queue. “Apparently discovering that my best friend has launched a full bakery operation without telling me.”

“I have not launched anything,” Eve protested.

Madison pointed at the sign. “There is branding.”

“Josh made that,” Eve sighed as she handed over the bag to a customer.

Madison turned to Josh. “Of course you did.” Josh smiled while putting out more bags, “Morning.”

“Morning. You’re both ridiculous.” She looked at the table again, eyes narrowing with sudden focus. “Also, why is your best seller not at eye level?”

Eve blinked. “What?”

“The brownies.” Madison put her coffee down, came around the side of the table, and shrugged out of her jacket. “Move them to the middle. People are hovering there first. Also the labels are cute, but you need a little flavour sign in front of each thing because no one wants to feel awkward asking.”

Eve stared at her. Madison stared back. “What?”

“You’ve been here twelve seconds,” Eve protested.

“And I have already improved things.”

Josh stepped aside with the wisdom of a man who recognised a takeover when he saw one, took a step aside and went to find coffee.

Madison rolled up her sleeves and got to work. It was absurd how quickly she made herself useful.

She rearranged the display so the brownies and blondies sat at the centre, moved the lemon drizzle to catch the light, propped the cookie bags in baskets so the labels faced forward, and somehow found a better place for the cash box. Then she took three photos, adjusted a cake stand by half an inch, took another photo, and declared the table “more intentional.”

“I hate that you’re right,” Eve muttered.

A customer stepped forward, and Madison smiled brightly. “Hi! What can I get for you?”

Eve looked at Josh and Josh looked at Eve, handing over the boiling hot coffee.

Madison had apparently decided she worked there now. Within minutes, the whole operation changed and for the better.

Eve handled questions about flavours and ingredients. Josh dealt with the card machine, cash, and restocking. Madison bagged items, chatted to customers, made quick little handwritten flavour signs, and somehow convinced three people to add cookies to their orders because “they’ll be annoyed later if they don’t.”

She also took photos whenever there was a quiet second.

Not obvious photos. Not the kind that made Eve feel watched. Just quick shots of the table, Josh’s hands tying string around a bag, Eve laughing despite herself, the little wooden sign, sunlight on the lemon drizzle, and a child reaching for a cookie with permission from his mother.

At one point, Eve caught her doing it. “Madison.”

Madison did not lower the phone. “Documentation for the future.”

By noon, the Wallace family had circled back yet again but this time, Emma arrived with Alison.

Eve saw them approaching together and immediately felt a deep, primal sense of danger.

“Oh, absolutely not,” she said.

Madison looked over. “What?”

“The mothers have joined forces,” Eve nodded in the direction of the women approaching.

Josh turned and his face changed. “Oh, God,” he muttered and got a whack on the arm from Madison for muttering that in a church hall.

Alison and Emma came towards the table arm in arm, looking far too pleased with themselves. Alison was glowing with pride; Emma was smiling in a quieter, more polished way, which somehow made her more dangerous.

“We were just saying,” Alison began.

“No,” Eve said.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Alison continued while looking offended but pleased at the same time.

“You were going to say that this looks professional and I should do this more often,” Eve noted while taking the last of the stock from Josh.

The two mothers opened their mouths and found she was completely right because that’s exactly what they were going to say.

The afternoon rush came after the church announced the raffle draw. People who had already bought things came back “for later.” People who had been meaning to come over finally did. Someone bought the last of the tiramisu brownies and looked genuinely devastated when told there were no more hidden underneath the table. A teenager bought millionaire’s shortbread, took one bite near the door, stopped dead, turned around, and came back for two more.

“That,” Josh murmured, “was a review.”

Eve tried not to look pleased but she failed because seeing people react in real time to her baking gave her a rush of satisfaction.

At half past one, Madison had fully taken command of the “front of house,” despite the fact that there was no house and barely a front. She was charming, quick, and shameless in a way Eve simply was not.

“These are the last lemon drizzle slices,” Madison told one woman. “And I’m not saying you’ll regret leaving without one, but I am saying I would.”

The woman bought two of them and ate one on the way out.

The Wallace brothers came back one final time just before two.

Daniel looked genuinely offended by the empty brownie tray while Benjamin bought the last cookie pie slice. Owen bought the final two blondies and Aiden handed over cash for a lemon drizzle slice and told Madison to keep the change.

Dale came over last, glanced at the nearly empty table, and gave Josh a look Eve could not quite read. It was pride, she realised later on. Not loud, not sentimental, just there because that was her father-in-law in a nutshell.

Dale looked at Eve. “You did good today.”

For some reason, that landed harder than she expected. “Thank you,” she said.

He nodded once, then picked up one of the last oatmeal raisin cookies. “And I’m taking this before my sons insult it again.”

At two-thirty, the final item sold: One oatmeal raisin cookie. It was fitting, really, because the first sale had been those cookies and it only seemed right that the final item sold would be the same cookie.

The table was empty, completely and utterly empty.

For a second, Eve just stood there behind it, looking at the crumbs, the signs, the baskets, the raised stands, the folded bags, and the little wooden sign Josh had made. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. Her jumper smelt like sugar, coffee, and the church hall.

But the table was empty. Everything was completely gone.

Madison slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You sold out.”

Eve swallowed hard and looked at the empty displays and the fact that she had nothing more to sell. “Apparently.”

Josh stood on her other side, quiet but smiling as he started wiping down his displays. Packing up felt much faster than setting up, mostly because there was almost nothing left to pack.

Josh broke down the stands and slid them into their crate. Madison folded bags, gathered signs, and took one more photo of the empty table because, apparently, that mattered too. Eve folded the tablecloths, shook crumbs into the bin, wiped the tables, and tucked the Eve’s Bakes sign carefully under one arm.

People kept stopping by to say thank you.

That was the worst part.

Not because Eve disliked gratitude. She was not a monster. But because every thank you landed somewhere tender she had not realised was exposed. People thanked her for the brownies, for showing up, for helping the church, for making things feel special, and for giving them something nice to take home. An older woman squeezed her hand and said the lemon drizzle tasted like the one her mother used to make. Well, that nearly finished Eve off.

When everything was packed, Reverend Miller brought them into the small side room near the church office to count the money. Alison came too, along with Emma, Josh, Madison, and two church volunteers who had been managing the main donation boxes.

Josh and Eve had tried to hand over the cash and the total of the card machine quietly without fuss but after some badgering about seeing what total they had made, they ended up being forced into chairs to watch.

The cash was counted first. Notes were smoothed out and stacked. Coins were tipped into little piles. Josh checked the card payments against the list he had kept in his neat, practical handwriting. Madison added the extra donations that customers had dropped into the jar.

There were overpayments from the Wallace family, salon customers who had refused change, people who had rounded up, and one folded fifty-dollar bill someone had quietly pushed into the jar without saying anything.

Eve sat with her arms crossed, watching the total climb. At first, it was nice, then it was alarming and then it became absurd. One of the volunteers added the final card payment and turned the calculator around.

For a moment, nobody spoke. Eve stared at the number and her brain tried to catch up with the fact. “That can’t be right.”

No one in the room spoke for a minute or two, looking at the total the volunteer had written down once everything had been counted and triple-checked. Reverend Miller smiled, slow and warm. “Eve, your stall raised two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars.”

Eve blinked and blinked again. “Sorry,” she said. “What?”

“Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars,” Madison repeated, grinning now. “For the roof.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Eve said as she looked around the room.

“That’s sold out,” Josh said. “It was just cookies,” she started until everyone interrupted with what was actually on the table as if she had forgotten.

Eve looked at all of them and for some reason, that was what made her laugh.

Not a polite laugh. Not a careful one. A real one, sudden and disbelieving, because the entire thing was absurd. Alison’s big mouth. The church roof. Josh’s sign. Madison appearing out of nowhere and reorganising the table like a general. The Wallace family buying half the stall while pretending they were just being supportive. The card machine held up to a window like a prayer.

Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars.

For a roof, from her small kitchen.

She laughed, and Josh grinned, and Alison cried, and Madison looked far too smug for someone who had arrived halfway through and immediately appointed herself manager.

Reverend Miller reached for Eve’s hand and squeezed it gently. “Thank you,” he said. “Truly. This will make a real difference.”

Eve looked down at the calculator again and then looked at her mother. “You are still never allowed to volunteer me for anything again,” she said.

Alison nodded through tears. “I know.”

Madison leaned in and started with, “But hypothetically, if someone asked nicely-” and stopped when she saw Eve looking at her. “No.”

But even as she said it, Eve could feel the truth settling quietly underneath the exhaustion.

Something had happened. She did not know what it was yet. She did not know what shape it would take, what name it would have, or how badly Madison was going to torment her about packaging before the end of the weekend.

But something had happened, something big.

They took a photo before Eve could escape. Of course they did.

Alison insisted, Reverend Miller agreed, and Madison said it was “historically important", which was the sort of dramatic nonsense Eve usually enjoyed unless she was the subject of it. Josh said it would be nice to have, which was rich coming from a man who normally acted as if having his photo taken required a court order.

So Eve stood in front of the empty table with Josh beside her, the little Eve’s Bakes sign propped between them. Alison stood on one side, already teary again, while Reverend Miller stood on the other, smiling with quiet gratitude. Madison squeezed in beside Eve like she had been part of the stall from the beginning, which, to be fair, she had been from the moment she arrived and started rearranging brownies with the authority of a military commander.

Then the Wallace family got dragged into it too.

Dale stood behind Josh with one hand on his son’s shoulder, looking proud in that understated Wallace way. Emma stood beside Alison, elegant and emotional, holding the last oatmeal raisin cookie like it was a trophy. Benjamin, Daniel, Owen, and Aiden crowded in around the edges, all far too pleased with themselves after having bought enough goods between them to qualify as a small corporate sponsor.

Someone held up a phone and after a couple of mishaps, the photo was finally taken.

Finally, they were allowed to leave.

The truck smelt like sugar, cardboard, wood varnish, and the ghost of everything they had sold. Eve climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door with a long, exhausted breath. Josh got in beside her, but neither of them moved for a moment.

The church sat behind them, cheerful and old and still in need of roof work, though less desperately than before.

Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars less, desperately, to be exact.

Eve leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. “I’m dead.”

Josh started the engine. “You did good.”

“I know.”

He glanced at her, raising one eyebrow. She opened one eye. “What? I’m allowed to know. I’m exhausted, not humble.”

He laughed and pulled out of the car park.

The drive home felt different from the drive there.

In the morning, Eve had been all nerves and lists, trapped inside her own head, convinced she had made too much, not enough, the wrong things, the right things badly, or somehow all of the above. Now she was emptied out, sore-footed, sugar-scented, and dazed by the strangeness of success.

Her phone buzzed in her bag, then again and three more times.

She ignored it until the sixth buzz, when Josh glanced over. “You should probably check that.”

“No,” she said even as her hand reached for her phone.

“It might be orders for the new business and name,” Josh pushed with a grin.

Eve slowly turned her head towards him. “Why would you say that?”

He smiled at the road and said nothing as she pulled out her phone.

There were messages because of course there were messages.

One from Alison, despite the fact that they had left her less than fifteen minutes ago: So proud of you. Everyone is talking about the brownies. Also Mrs Delaney wants to know if you do birthday cakes. Love you xxx

Another message came from Madison, even though Madison had only just finished helping them pack up: I’m coming over tomorrow. We need to talk packaging, photos, branding, and why you didn’t call me before making an entire cottage bakery appear out of thin air.

Eve closed her eyes then another came through from a number she half-recognised: Hi Eve, it’s Rachel from church. I bought the lemon drizzle today and wondered whether you ever take orders? No rush. It was beautiful.

Then another: This is Claire Delaney! Alison gave me your number, hope that’s okay! Could I possibly order brownies for my book club next week?

“I’m going to kill my mother,” Eve sighed as she slid her phone into the bag and promised herself she would deal with the messages later after a nap.

For a while, they drove in silence, past fields, old houses, wooded lanes, and familiar turns, back towards Baileys Neck. Eve watched Easton fall away behind them and thought about the empty table.

Not the crowd, not the compliments and not even the money, though two thousand, four hundred and eighty-six dollars kept flashing through her head like a number that belonged to someone else.

The table – how it had looked when they first set it up, full and careful and hers. How it had looked when they left, empty except for crumbs. How it looked with customers around it, putting orders in so quickly that Eve, Madison and Josh had all worked the table at one point.

By the time they reached Merrick’s Reach, the farmhouse appeared at the end of the lane like a reward. The trees stood in afternoon light. The porch waited quietly. The house looked deeply, unfairly peaceful, as if it had not spent the last three days being overtaken by sugar, labels, panic, butter, and Josh muttering at the printer.

He parked near the bar and they sat there for another moment, the sudden realisation that they had things now to unpack. “Do we unload now?” Eve asked weakly.

Josh looked at her, the back of the truck and then back at her again. “No.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eve sighed as she all but slid in her seat.

“We unload the food containers and anything that shouldn’t stay out. Tables can wait,” Josh said as he climbed out of the truck.

They carried in only what was necessary: the cash box, the card machine, the empty containers, the sign, and the bags of leftover supplies. The house was cooler inside, smelling faintly of last night’s pizza, coffee, and baked sugar.

The kitchen looked almost normal.

She looked down at the sign. It was too simple and too sweet, too temporary-looking. It belonged on a church table, not on anything permanent.

Still, she touched the edge of it with one finger.

“It would need a better name,” she said without much thought about it. Josh glanced over from where he was putting away things and said nothing but privately, he knew better than anyone that something big was happening whether Eve realised it or not.

Outside, the late afternoon moved through the trees. Somewhere beyond the garden, the river caught the light. The house was quiet around them, still carrying the mess and warmth of the last few days.

“A better name,” Josh repeated softly.

Eve looked at him. “Hypothetically.”

“Of course.”

That night, they did not clean properly. They did not unload the tables. They did not discuss orders, names, branding, cottage food rules, pricing, or whether Eve should reply to the woman from church about brownies for book club.

They ate takeout on the couch with their feet up, the fire low, the curtains half drawn, and the farmhouse settling quietly around them.

Eve fell asleep halfway through a film, her head against Josh’s shoulder, one hand still loosely holding her phone.

Messages continued to appear on her screen:

Thank you again. Everything was beautiful. Do you do cakes? Could I order cookies? My daughter loved the brownies. Please let me know if you ever bake for Christmas.

Josh glanced down at the screen, then at Eve, who was completely out, lashes resting against tired cheeks, hair falling loose from the clip she had forgotten to take out.

He carefully took the phone from her hand and set it on the coffee table.

Then he looked towards the kitchen, where the little wooden sign sat waiting on the counter.

Eve’s Bakes would not be the name.

He already knew that. It was too small for what had started today.

But the thing itself, whatever it became, had begun in the most Eve way possible: reluctantly, thoroughly, with too much butter, too much feeling, and absolutely no ability to do anything halfway.

Josh smiled to himself, reached for the blanket on the back of the couch, and pulled it over her.

Outside, Merrick’s Reach was dark and quiet, the barn sitting in shadow behind the farmhouse, still only a barn for now. But not forever.